


Waiting On The Good Times

by Monsieur_Grenouille



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Funerals, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Peterick, Post-Hiatus, light ryden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 09:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22847590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsieur_Grenouille/pseuds/Monsieur_Grenouille
Summary: Patrick gives a eulogy.“Gotta have opposites; light and dark, dark and light in painting. It’s like in life. Gotta have a little sadness once in a while so you know when the good times come. I’m waiting on the good times, now.”-Bob Ross
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz, Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Waiting On The Good Times

**Author's Note:**

> Would it be depressing if I mentioned this was based on a true story? I kinda wanted to convey the message that if you lose someone special, the best thing to do is just remember. Sit down with people who also knew the person, and just trade stories about things the person did. Listen to recordings of their voice, keep their shirts and smell the shirts every so often (at least half of my clothes are things left behind by my dad), and write down the best memories. That way... that way you won’t forget a thing. Even if there’s only three years of accurate memories, and even if you don’t think you’re a good writer, no such notebook can be wasted if it’s filled with the memories you love.

Patrick stepped through the doors of the church hesitantly. He wasn’t sure he was ready to speak yet. He’d written a eulogy and revised it at least a million times, but it was still hard to say. Even in front of the mirror, it was hard to say. Joe and Andy were standing by the doors, and they folded Patrick into a hug immediately. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Joe whispered in his ear, “he’s not sick anymore.” 

Andy nodded and added, “I’m not good at comforting grieving people, but I do have experience with grief. What I have learned is to take each day one at a time, talk about it, and write down all the memories you had together. That way, you don’t forget anything.” 

Patrick stepped back and looked at his best friends. “You guys are just... just amazing. I can’t believe how much you helped me and Pete during his... his treatments and everything. I love you guys,” he smiled weakly at them, tears starting to cloud his eyes. 

Joe patted him on the back. “It’s what we’re here for, Trick.” The guitarist sighed and led him to the seats wordlessly. He had a spot near the front, which made him feel special. _They honour me_ , he thought to himself, _the church thinks I was important to Pete_. He pulled his folded eulogy out of his suit pocket and read through it one more time. There were a few typos, but that’s okay. 

_Pete wouldn’t have wanted this funeral_ , he thought to himself, _he would’ve wanted everyone to show up in their pajamas while Metallica blasted over the speakers. There would’ve been a slide show displaying every single stupid thing he ever did. If he came back and saw that his family threw this together for him, he’d spend three hours intricately “fixing” it._

Out of nowhere, Brendon Urie appeared next to him, crying. “I’m so sorry,” he sniffled, “he was such a good man.” Ryan Ross was at Brendon’s side, holding the brunette’s hand comfortingly. 

Patrick said hello to the couple and talked with them for a while, trying to avoid the topic of Pete’s death. Instead, he talked about how Pete was always a silly little boy full of ideas, and how he always remembered the bassist to treat Hemmingway like the dog was his son. Patrick intended to keep Hemmingway alive as long as possible and maybe use him as a grief dog. 

Brendon smiled at one point. “I remember when I met him,” he laughed, “I was just thinking, _I thought he’d be taller_ , the whole time.” 

Patrick chuckled, “I thought the same thing! Pete was also wearing the stupidest clothes. He’d get these shirts customized to say awkward little phrases, and the most surprising part was that he actually wore them.” The singer wiped a tear from his eyes and said, “I think I might start wearing them, now.” 

_Trade baby blues for wide eyed browns, I sleep with your old shirts and walk through this house in your shoes. I know it’s strange._ Patrick thought. More recently, Pete’s old poems had been floating through his mind like old memories. It felt so odd, but it comforted him. It was like a scent left behind on an old blanket from someone you love. _God,_ Patrick thought, _I’m starting to sound like Pete_. 

And he liked that.

* * *

“Today, we are here to honour the life of Peter Louis Kingston Wentz III. Son of Dale and Peter Wentz Jr., brother of Andrew and Hillary Wentz, father of Bronx Wentz, and ex-husband of Ashlee Simpson.” 

The pastor didn’t even bother to say “current husband of Patrick Stump-Wentz.” Brendon looked at Patrick sympathetically. Patrick shook his head lightly. He tried to communicate the message that it was okay and he didn’t expect the church to say it, but he actually did want to hear his marriage proclaimed to the public. But you know how it is. 

The funeral went by normally, and eventually Patrick was called up to speak the eulogy. He approached the altar casually and pulled out his folded piece of paper.

“I was... I was Pete’s husband. We got married in 2014 after he proposed to me at Taco Bell, and I think I’ll continue to call him my husband until my final days. 

“I remember when we were just a couple of teenagers obsessed with music. He’d always come knocking at my door, begging me to read his latest poem. It got to the point where I would put melodies with his music, and thus started this crazy string of albums we managed to make a living from. But between the shows in big cities and the unforgettable nights we had in hotel rooms, I always thought of him as part of me. A part that would never leave, even if he walked out of our home and never came back. 

“Around a month before he passed away, Pete told me he was going to the store to pick up a sack of wheat. I said, _okay, Pete. You never have to tell me what you’re getting at the store. Just tell me if you’re coming home or not_. He just smiled, told me he loved me, and left. Three hours later he comes back, and there’s no sack of wheat in sight. In fact, people don’t sell wheat in _sacks_ anymore... they sell wheat in 3 pound paper bags. But that doesn’t matter. Um, anyway, Pete was holding a little puppy in his hands. I asked him why he had a puppy with him, and he just handed it to me and said _It’s a therapy dog, Patrick. You’ll need him soon_. I felt so awkward in that moment. I didn’t know what to say, or how to even speak. And I still don’t. I have to read off of this paper. 

“So, all in all, I’ll miss Pete more than ever. I looked through his old notebooks last week, looking for a simple piece of him, and I saw this old lyric from Save Rock and Roll. I broke down crying when I read it, but I think I can say it now. 

“ _If heaven’s grief brings hell’s reign, still I’d trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday._ ” Patrick blinked the tears out of his eyes. He sighed, gazed longingly at Pete’s open casket, and whispered, “You don’t even _need_ a boost over heaven’s gate. You were more than enough on Earth.” 

Then, he wordlessly abandoned the mantle and sat next to Brendon like nothing happened. It took a few minutes for him to realize he had just said all the things he longed to say, but to the people who needed to hear it least. But after all, isn’t that the purpose of a eulogy?

**Author's Note:**

> Clean comments! I started a new series called “My Seventh Grade Diary,” And it’s a collection of Fall Out Boy fanfictions based on my best and worst childhood memories. This one was my dad’s funeral.


End file.
